


Cozy

by yeaka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: After it all, together they withstand the frost.





	Cozy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katnor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katnor/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for katnor’s “4. Freeze Maedhros/Finrod/Fingolfin I imagine having crossed the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin and Finrod wouldn't be happy about cold, but I think Finrod, being younger and more sensitive, would be more susceptible to it. I would love some fluff and snuggling on a cold night. Smut is ok too” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The compound for those who followed Fëanor East is hardly punishment; Fingolfin still enjoys a large estate, only now those close to his heart are grouped closer to his home. His nephews no longer have to sneak out in the middle of the night, traverse guarded distance and sneak in through his windows—something he always tried to discourage anyway. Now Maedhros comes to him through the front door, the Fëanor residence only across the garden. Fingolfin always takes Maedhros in with open arms, as he would’ve at any point in history, even on the coldest nights of his life, which tonight is reminiscent of.

Maedhros is already asleep in his arms. Maedhros looks blissful, peaceful as he rarely does in life, nestled on Fingolfin’s arms and his copper hair fanned out all around him. It’s only just begun to grow to its full glory again; the length was shorn by evil forces. It covers one of his torn ears, the pale scars across his face evident in the moonlight. But his sun-kissed skin is still a healthy hue, dark despite the temperature, and his body radiates a heat that Fingolfin once would’ve given almost anything for. He’s grateful that his Nelyo never had to suffer the Helcaraxë, but he also knows that Maedhros would’ve been a great help to him there.

He’s a new help tonight, when the shores of Valinor are strangely cold, imitating the seasons of the East that so many of its populace has now seen. _Winter_ was never something Fingolfin craved. The chill in the air still brings him vile memories, and the ghost of frost across his skin prevents him from sleep. He stares at the sleeping form of Maedhros instead, using that vivid beauty to hold the ice at bay. Buried under blankets and the thickest night robes he owns, Fingolfin stands firm against his struggles.

But remembering the Helcaraxë has other consequences, and it only makes him fear for his other nephews—specifically, his other favourite, his darling Finrod, another delicate beauty that should never have had to suffer through the snow. When he shuts his eyes, he sees Finrod’s slender form shaking amidst a sea of white, teeth clenched and skin deathly pale. It makes Fingolfin’s heart clench. Though he usually sleeps where he is, allowing his younger lovers to come to him as they will, he considers going to Finrod. He’s sure Finrod could use the body heat on a night like this. Finrod was always more sensitive than Fingolfin, just as strong but more an artful burst of light than a jaded warrior, and he was too young to fight the Helcaraxë wind as Fingolfin did. Maedhros would be even more fitting, being pure _fire_ , but Fingolfin never likes to wake him. He deserves his rest more than anyone. And he never finds enough. 

Occasionally, this problem crops up, driven by the company of two lovers—which should he go to, when neither is available to ask? He knows the answer now—Finrod needs him more. Fingolfin was the one that had to command the lines across the ice, the one Finrod always came to for support. And Maedhros is gorgeous to lie beside and always a pleasure to bed, but the well being of his cherished nephews comes before his own joy. Fingolfin begins to slowly pull his arm out from under Maedhros head. 

He hasn’t quite made it all the way when his door opens, a flicker of light clear across the room. Fingolfin doesn’t bother glancing up—he knows who it will be; only two would forgo a knock at his late hour. And if it were Fëanor, coming to reclaim his son, Maedhros would already be awake from the commotion. 

Instead, it’s Finrod that drifts gracefully towards the bed. He’s trembling lightly despite the woolen blanket thrown around his slender shoulders, and his skin is almost as pale as his hair. When he comes close enough to see Maedhros’ form, he murmurs, “I did not think Maedhros as susceptible to the cold as myself.” 

“He is not,” Fingolfin returns, already pushing the covers back to allow Finrod access. “He has taken to staying with me every night, as you are welcome to do.” Finarfin, at least, would not mind nearly so much as Fingolfin’s elder brother. 

A lovely grin stretches across Finrod’s lovely face, and Fingolfin gets the distinct impression that he would laugh if he had the warmth for it. But he only mumbles, “Tonight, I may need both of you to heat me—I fear I have not the strength to fight against this infernal cold.”

“’S not about strength,” Maedhros murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, drawing Fingolfin’s eye. He lets out a sudden yawn before Fingolfin can comment on his state, and then he mutters, face falling, “My guilt woke me. But for me, you would not have had to endure such fate.”

“But for your father,” Fingolfin immediately corrects, “whom we have already forgiven, and who will always have my love, which goes doubly for you.” 

Maedhros’ cheeks stain a light pink. But he doesn’t press the subject, fortunately—Fingolfin would only be forced to fight back, as he always does when Maedhros purports himself worth anything less than everything. 

Finrod chooses that moment to climb onto the bed, starting on Fingolfin’s side, but Fingolfin places a hand against his hip and guides him across, directing him towards the middle. Maedhros shuffles back for it, making space. Smiling sheepishly, Finrod discards his blanket, adding it to the pile, and burrows under theirs. Fingolfin draws them up afterwards, smoothing them across, while Finrod brushes fallen strands of gold out of his eyes. As soon as he’s settled, Maedhros cocoons around him, wrapping him in long arms and hooking over his shoulder, kissing his cheek. Finrod whines happily, squirming as Fingolfin descends on him from the other side. Even through all their many layers, Fingolfin thoroughly enjoys drawing Finrod’s lithe frame against him. He catches Finrod’s cheek when he can, guiding Finrod up for a probing kiss—he fills Finrod’s mouth instantly with his tongue, gently stimulating and coaxing out Finrod’s warmth. He can feel Maedhros grinding Finrod into him from the other side. Together, the three of them seem to thaw the room.

As Fingolfin’s kiss ends, Finrod moans across his lips, “For all I have suffered, I must be the luckiest elf alive.” 

“I have suffered more and am luckier,” Maedhros chuckles.

Fingolfin quietly thinks to himself that he’s the most fortunate one, holding two of the world’s greatest gems. And he continues to enjoy them until they’ve fogged the windows with steam.


End file.
